Aether
by cupcakeriot
Summary: Six lives, three hearts, one destiny. A tale of mythology and fate gone awry. [M for violence and sexual situations]
1. Preface

**General Disclaimer:**

_Aether_ is a story told in three parts, with each part weaving the story of two characters –

_The Ember and The Mist _

_The Terrain and The Breeze_

_The Aether and The Void_

I'll be blunt. I'm changing a lot of things. I'm changing the names of the characters by using alternate spellings, nicknames, or middle names, I'm changing the appearances of characters, and I'm changing the personalities of characters, because these characters will not be very canon.

_Aether_ has been a story that's been in my head since I was in 9th grade and it has undergone various renovations and reimaginings. It's my goal to drag you into my world with this story, and make you see the Twilight characters in a different light.

And finally, _Aether_ is based off various elements of Roman Mythology. I've done my best in terms of research, but I'm no expert. Forgive my mistakes.

This story is fiction.

I hope.

* * *

**Preface**

_Hana, Hawaii, 1997_

Waves crash against blackened rocks, sea foam cresting over jutting stones, meeting grainy white sand, the sharp scent of salt heavy in the air. The moon, high and full, casts light and shadow across a translucent figure – a woman, caught between intangibility and the real world, her form seeming to hover between the earth and the sky, unmarred by the tepid water at her feet – as she fades into existence, as if from air, accompanied only by a dash of golden-silver light.

The woman inhales greedily – the human realm was such a novelty to the senses, all loud and contradictory. She only wishes that her form were able to _feel_ this realm, as she was certain the sand between her toes would be softer than any material in Olympus.

Graceful, weightless, the woman moves over the beach slowly, gossamer-like fabric trailing her steps; she is guided not by knowledge, but by an otherworldly instinct, an indefinable intelligence. The message is in her mind. This is her purpose.

The bungalow she arrives at is a mere hundred yards from the shoreline, painted white, with large windows and bamboo blinds. The home sprawls, spread out lazily, one wide space nestled between tropical plants. The woman passes through the walls with an unpleasant shudder – she'd forgotten that the human realm was _solid_.

Inside, the house is darkened by the sleeping residents, and the woman frowns. She cannot stay long enough for the humans to wake up naturally; she passes through another wall, and then another, until she comes upon the curious sight of mortals embracing in slumber.

She clears her throat, loudly.

The reaction is instantaneous – the man, cobalt-eyed and blond, sits up quickly, golden knife tucked into his palm, his gaze fierce, his arm covering the startled female body beside him. The sheet slips, reveals his firm chest, and the tattoo that is etched into his skin – etched with blood and power beyond any human grasp. He is a Watcher, the first of his generation, and he was born with that tattoo, the ancient symbol sitting on his sternum.

He recognizes the woman, and his protective posture slumps. He stifles a yawn, sets his blade aside. "A Messenger."

"Naturally," the woman replies with a tilt of her head, white-blond hair brushing against the worn wooden floors. Her eyes glow silver, no pupil visible.

The man's brow furrows. "The Parcae have _Seen_, then. Finally."

"Once every other generation now," the woman confirms, watching as the woman in the bed sits up, all green eyes and copper hair. "The Watchers must congregate."

"Yes, I'm aware of the protocol," the man says. "What do they call you?"

"A Messenger," the woman replies, and her voice carries a note of exasperation. "If you insist on referring to me by a designated alias, the last Watchers called me _Katie_."

"Katie," the other woman says, recognition washing over her features. "My grandmother spoke of you."

"Hopefully you will not fail as your grandmother did."

The remark is biting, but serves its purpose. It is a reminder. For hundreds of years, the Watchers have failed, and the Parcae were slower to find the signs, the indications that fate can finally be restored to the right path. Time was running out; there were fewer opportunities on the horizon.

The man sits straighter and tightens his hand on his bedmate's hip, a subtle comfort. "The message?" he prompts.

Katie, Messenger of the Parcae, tilts her chin up, eyes glowing brighter, the words from her mouth ancient, heavy with magic. "_The Aether has been reborn. The Powers have begun to rise. The Elementals must be found before the Powers destroy them,_" she pauses, blinking, as if surprised. "And I've run out of time. I will return when you call me," she says, her form fading into the thin, warm air of the room.

The man and woman are silent in the wake of the visit, exchanging a weighted stare as the moon sunk lower in the sky, replaced by rose, tangerine, and lilac sunlight.

"It's starting, then," the woman finally says, pushing curls off her neck. "After all this time…"

"Mere moments to them, Esme," the man says. "Time passes differently to the Gods."

"We need to contact the others," Esme tells him with certainty. "We can fix what's happened. We're ready, Carlisle."

"The Aether is always reborn last," he recites, gaze on the rising sun. "So the Elementals are already waiting to be found. I'll start calling the other Watchers."

"And I'll start a pot of coffee."


	2. The Ember and The Mist - 1

**Disclaimer: Neptune and Vulcan don't own Twilight.**

* * *

**The Ember and The Mist**

* * *

1

_Malibu, California, 2013_

The house is empty when Lillian lopes down the modern stairs, short blond hair mussed from sleep, a yawn on her lips.

_Not a surprise._

It was early, before sunrise, so maybe she should have expected at least _one_ of her adoptive parents to be home, but they very rarely were and, honestly, Lillian preferred it that way. When they were home, there were so many expectations for Lillian to meet – _wear this, do that, go there, avoid those people_. She relished the freedom to do as she pleased when they were away, even if that meant she spent most of her time alone. It was a fair trade-off. She didn't _ask_ to be a Californian debutant.

Weak daylight streams into the gourmet kitchen, all white granite, buttery paint, and chrome appliances. Lillian opens the refrigerator, squinting her eyes against the harsh light, and blindly reaches for the package of English muffins and peach preserves that Carmen, the night maid, brought from home. Lillian doesn't use one of the fine China plates to make her breakfast, and she eats quickly over the sink, chewing as her eyes rove over the rising tide through the kitchen window. The breaks looked clean, despite the darkening clouds overhead – not that Lillian was going to let a little storm stop her from surfing.

Lillian loved the water – practically grew up swimming in the ocean as she bounced between foster homes until she was thirteen and she was adopted. The ocean was her anchor, and her sea-salt and sun bleached hair was proof that she was no newbie on the waves.

Brushing crumbs off her fingers, she takes one last look at the ocean before darting back upstairs and into her room, slipping off the dark blue camisole and shorts in favor of her favorite aquamarine boardshorts and white rashguard. She rummaged through the minor mess that was her bedroom floor before finding the almost-empty tube of sunscreen, which she carefully smoothed onto her skin.

The ultramarine short board leaning against the wall is methodically waxed, then tucked beneath her arm as she trots back downstairs, and out the back sliding door, bare feet on the cold wooden deck. Living on the edge of the ocean was _nice_, because Lillian didn't have to walk more than three hundred feet before she could greet the water. Her toes wiggled, indenting wet sand.

Lillian is still for a moment, exhaling easily as the final pieces of sleep clear from her mind. Morning was her favorite part of the day, particularly mornings on the beach before other people came and ruined the peace. She liked solitude the best, with cool water moving against her skin and seaweed tickling her ankles.

She steps further into the water, unperturbed by the roiling resistance the ocean offered – she was in her element, her movements well honed, fluid, as she mounts her board, paddling off shore on her belly. Lillian likes the burn of her muscles, and paddles far enough that morning beach joggers are mere specs in the distance, and the gentle roar of the ocean is the only noise she hears. Her hands lay flat on the water, fingers dipped just below the surface, as she feels the rhythm of the ocean, feels the smooth roll of the tides. A wave begins to build, small enough to be ignored as Lillian straddles her short board, letting the swell of water pass beneath her board and body.

It was a curious thing, Lillian's relationship with the ocean, which had simply _always_ been in her life. She was drawn to it in a way that she couldn't describe and felt a sense of sublime peace when she was with it. And, as odd as it seemed, Lillian couldn't help but feel like the ocean _knew_ her – like the ocean _knew_ she was wading through its deep waters and was just waiting for her to wake it up.

It was a silly thought, the musings of a child that did not belong in the mind of an almost adult.

Lillian laughs to herself, pushes a salt-water hand through her short hair, and eyes the growing swell in the distance. It would be her first wave of the day, and a strong one, by the looks of it. She lays flat again, turns on the water, and glances over her shoulder, paddling, bracing herself to ride the wave.

The wave comes closer, rising, suddenly too large, too powerful and-

"_Wake up, Malibu! This is your five AM wake-up call! It's time to greet the smog of a new day!"_

Beneath white linen sheets, a sylphlike figure groans, roused from slumber by the sudden onset of noise hailing from a particularly annoying radio-clock; one shapely leg flexes as a slender hand reaches out from the burrow of covers, aimlessly slapping the clock until, mercifully, the noise _stops_. A moment passes, and then the figure moves, sits up, revealing a teenage girl with eyes that seemed to be stuck between electric and ice blue.

Lillian is shaken by the dream, which felt _too real_.

Unfortunately, for her, it had been happening a lot lately, and these too-vivid dreams were _always_ centered on the ocean.

She didn't like it, didn't understand why the one thing that had always brought her peace was suddenly haunting her dreams. She couldn't think of anything in particular that would have spawned a fear of the ocean – there didn't seem to be a reason for the dreams.

Lillian looks at the clock on her nightstand, eyeing the time. _If I get up right now, I'll have time to surf before school starts_.

Her eyes dart to the large window in her room, taking note of the clear skies and perfect swells, seagulls shuffling on shore. The sight of the normal, _calm_ weather soothed the nerves that were frayed by her dream. She stands, adjusts her shorts, and peeks out of her room, listening for any sounds, any indication that one or both of her adoptive parents made it home – the house is quiet, as usual.

Lillian ignores the pang of loneliness and remembers that Jane, her pseudo-mother, had a fundraiser that Lillian needed to attend on Friday night. She'd probably see Jane then. Lillian cared even less about when Alec would be home – he spent half his time in New York, anyway, probably having another affair with his new secretary.

Sometimes, Lillian wondered why they chose to adopt her. It's not like they put any effort into the whole parenting thing – but, then again, it looked good for Jane's philanthropy if she had an adopted child, and Alec probably didn't care too much either way.

Lillian sighs. It really didn't matter; she had food, shelter, and the ocean. Parents were overrated. And maybe that was cold, or whatever, but nobody had ever accused Lillian as being sugar-sweet anyway.

She turns back into her room, trading her sleep-clothes for navy boardshorts and a teal halter-bikini top, and heads downstairs for a quick breakfast, her longboard and wax in hand. Lillian chooses to ignore the fact that, on any other day, she would have chosen her favorite white rashguard, the English muffin, or her shortboard, because that _stupid_ dream didn't scare her. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

Outside, greeting the morning rays, it's a lot easier to lie to herself.

_The dream was just that – a dream. Didn't happen. Not real. And I'm not afraid of a dream._

Down the shoreline, a group of three walks, the willowy figure in the middle waving a hand in Lillian's direction – two of the people she knows, because they also carry surfboards, and because she'd been meeting Vera and Tom at this very time all summer. She wondered who they brought along.

Vera, the love child of a model and a certain rock star, was Lillian's best friend – mostly because she'd somehow found a way around Lillian's cool demeanor. She lived a few houses down and, when Lillian first moved in with Jane and Alec, had insisted that Lillian teach her how to surf. Lillian did. And Vera has been _insisting_ Lillian do things ever since; Lillian wondered when Vera would take "no" for an answer.

_Probably never._

"I'm surprised you're not out on the water," Vera says by way of greeting, dark hair piled on the crown of her head in a messy bun, dressed hot pink rashguard and black bikini-shorts, her hazel eyes bright. Tom, beside her, simply nods – he was a guy of very few words, and Vera talked enough for the both of them.

Lillian shrugs a shoulder, eyes darting to the tall guy hovering a few feet behind her friends. "Late start, I guess."

Vera subtly follows Lillian's line of sight, and smiles brightly. "This is Dael. He just moved in next door to Tom. He's cute, right?"

Lillian acknowledges Vera's blatant prodding with a raised brow, to which Vera raises both of hers in response, silently communicating that, _Hey, this guy is really hot and you should jump on this before some other girl snatches him up_.

Lillian, annoyed, looks away from Vera, and at Dael.

Vera was right about one thing, at least – he _was_ cute.

More than cute, actually, all tall and built well enough that Lillian could make out the subtle outline of his muscles beneath his dark jacket and torn-up jeans, clunky combat boots on his feet, which was _weird_, because this was _California_, and a _beach_, and combat boots do not go well with sand. She guessed he wasn't from around here – and that Vera probably got Tom to drag this poor guy out without really telling him what he was getting in to. _That_ explained the frown plastered on his face, which, for the record, was exceptionally defined, and dotted with freckles and the occasional mole, curly, dark chocolate hair brushing against his forehead. And, when the early morning sunlight hit the angular planes of his face, she could see that his eyes were caught somewhere between amber and rust, which narrow into a bored glare when he catches Lillian looking at him.

He says nothing.

Lillian looks away, at the swells mounting on the horizon, and then at Tom, who was about as hooked on surfing as she was. "Ready?"

Tom studies the ocean. "Tide's too high for my taste."

"Vera?"

The other girl hugs Tom's bicep and pouts at Lillian, tilting her head in Dael's direction. "You _sure_ you want to surf _right now_?"

"Uh, _yeah_," Lillian rolls her eyes. "That's why I come to the beach this early, you know, to surf."

"You're no fun," Vera complains as Lillian wades into the ocean.

"Says the girl who doesn't want to surf," Lillian calls back, enjoying the tepid chill of the ocean and the feathery brush of seaweed against her ankles.

Vera laughs, the pleasant sound fading as Lillian paddles further out, valiantly ignoring the prickling thoughts that were trying to tell her that she was making a mistake, going out alone. The ocean seemed to mirror the ominous warning, offering more rippling swells, as if trying to push her back to shore.

Lillian, stubborn, paddles on. _It was just a dream_, she tells herself as she straddles the board, waiting for a decent wave.

But everything was too familiar, and ticks of fear filtered into her mind. And it didn't take too long for _that wave_ to swell in the distance – the wave from the dream. For a moment, Lillian hesitated, wary. She could easily ride the wave out, wait for a different one. Most surfers trusted their guts because the ocean? It's this huge, deadly _thing_ that could kill will a single splash.

The doubt in Lillian's stomach was because of that _stupid_ dream, though, of that she was sure. So she turns and paddles, looking over her shoulder, bracing her body, catching the wave at the top of the crest, sure on her feet, steady with her balance.

Until, quite suddenly, _nothing_ was okay.

The water hurt a lot more than the sharp pinch of her tether snapped – it was everywhere, deep, _pushing_ Lillian down, swirling, spinning. Lillian's body was no more than a rag doll in the thralls of the ocean.

It felt like forever.

Lillian _knew_ what was happening – she was drowning and it didn't matter how much she relaxed her body, because the water wasn't letting her go. She was running out of air, having gasped in panic the second she went under. She couldn't fight the current, couldn't break free of the riptide. She wouldn't survive this.

Her eyes are open, watching the chaotic water, foaming and angry, her arms flung to the sides as, slowly, her vision starts to fade darker, mouth falling open, releasing that last bubble of oxygen to be lost to the ocean.

_Breathe_, a deep voice urges, somewhere from the back of her mind. The voice is ancient, powerful, but not _new_ to Lillian – she'd heard it somewhere before, she was sure.

_I can't do that,_ she tells the voice weakly, barely holding on to consciousness as her lungs scream for relief. _I'll die._

_Breathe, child. _

_No, I-_

_Breathe._

Lillian inhales, water rushing into her lungs, salty beyond imagination, filling her throat. She expects to cough, expects her body to fight against the liquid intrusion, but, remarkably, her lungs, or something _inside_ her lungs, seems to expand, and then it doesn't feel like she's just swallowed water anymore.

She exhales. Bubbles, _oxygen_, get lost in the riptide.

_Keep breathing, child_. _You need to calm down._

Lillian listens to the voice – listens in a way she'd never really listened before. There was trust as she followed his directions, allowing that powerful voice to guide her. And, gradually, Lillian calms down.

Remarkably, so does the riptide; it seems to melt away easily, as if it had never existed, leaving Lillian floating beneath the surface of the suddenly calm water. And she continues to breathe.

_Am I dead?_

_You are the farthest from death, child. You've just been born._

_Who…are you?_

The voice releases a mirthful sound. _I'm an ancestor_, he says simply.

_I don't have a family_, Lillian tells him, eyes wide as she watches more bubbles of air float from her mouth. Had she been able to see herself, she would have known that her eyes were glowing bright electric-blue, lit up, iridescent.

_You have far more than a family, child – you have a destiny._

_Destiny?_

The voice, though, is gone, disappearing as quickly as it had arrived.

Lillian swims to the surface, coughing as her lungs discharge a surge of salt-water, coughing as her body reacquaints itself with oxygen. Her shortboard floats a few yards away, and the shore isn't too far away. She coughs again, and swims towards her board, lifting herself onto the waxes surface.

"_Lillian!"_

She looks to the shore, where Vera is waist-deep in the ocean, shouting in her direction, Tom holding her steady. How long had she been under? There was no way to tell.

"I'm fine!" she yells back, looking down through the water, wondering what _exactly_ happened.

_I'm okay_, she thinks._ I shouldn't be. I should be dead, but somehow, I'm not._

Lillian reaches up, touches her throat, still remembering what it felt like to drown, and then breathe water. She paddles slowly to shore, short hair slicked from her face, expression vacant.

Vera reaches for her when she's close enough, hugging Lillian fiercely.

"I'm okay," she tells her friend, catching Tom's eyes, and then Dael's, who is frowning thoughtfully at the ocean.

_I just need to figure out why I'm still alive_.

* * *

**A/N: This story will have a fast-pace, so, you know, brace yourself. **

_**The Ember and The Mist**_** is the story of Lillian (Rosalie **_**Lillian**_** Hale) and Dael (Emmett **_**Dale**_** McCarty, with **_**Dael**_** being an alternate spelling to **_**Dale**_**). Find my on Facebook to check out the particulars of these characters **_**and**_** teasers for **_**Aether**_**. **

**Shout out to the first 10 reviews of the last chapter –**

**YesMyRealNameIsBella – Sexy Gods, coming right up!**

**vampyregirl86 – Yep, couldn't help myself! I will let you know which names I'm changing as we go along, and if I forget, just shoot me a PM!**

**Monique1991 – Probably won't be updating this one as frequently as NOVA, but I'm not sure yet!**

**Dinotopian – I aim to…captivate! ;)**

**Le Crepuscule – Wifey! 3 Let's do a happy dance!**

**LunaDiSangue85 – Second Wifey! We're about to get down with the mythology!**

**yagalinus0420 – Yes! Reeling you in already!**

**Nalia-R – I think you'll figure out my pattern, and probably guess the ending of the story lol**

**Fanfictionalcolic – **_**Aether**_** is, in mythology, a personification of heaven, as well as the pure "air" or energy that the Gods lived off of; it's also, in metaphysics, the "fifth element", otherwise known as **_**spirit**_**. For this story, I'm culminating both of these meanings! **

**Super special shout out to the first review of the last chapter – ****Siobhan Whitlock – Happy to addict you, my dear! I'm all right with being a dealer!**

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

**~cupcakeriot**


	3. The Ember and The Mist - 2

**Disclaimer: Neptune and Vulcan don't own Twilight.**

* * *

2

_Malibu, California, 2013_

There was sand in his shoes. He could feel the tiny grains seeping through the holes in his socks and he frowns, trying to remember how sand got in his shoes in the first place; they were _combat boots_, scuffed with high ankles and snapping laces, and they should be resistant to fucking _sand_. Maybe he should assimilate, trade in his Nevada footwear for something more _Californian_, like sandals, or some shit. That girl, Vera, and her slave – _boyfriend –_ Tom, they wore sandals, and Vera's friend, that Lillian girl, the one who almost drowned not fifteen minutes ago, she was barefoot.

And she _did_ almost drown. He was certain of it.

People – mostly his adopted father, teachers, and pretty much anyone who looked at his test scores – assumed Dael was stupid. They underestimated him because of the dyslexia, but Dael was far from stupid, even if he did jumble his letters and numbers, and he _knew_ that the blond girl was underwater for too long. She passed it off like it was nothing, soaking wet from salt water, lashes a shade darker, hair plastered against her scalp, body faintly shivering – but something had happened out on the water.

The weird thing was that Dael was almost certain the he'd heard something beyond the roaring of waves – something deep and powerful that he couldn't name. It nagged at the back of his head as he shuffled down the beach, only partially thankful to be distanced from Vera's incessant talking.

_I heard _something_ and that girl drowned_, _or got close to drowning._

Maybe he wouldn't fixate on what might of happened to that Lillian girl if she hadn't have been half as pretty. The thing was, though, that she _was_ beautiful – like, model material. She was like a real-life pin-up girl, just more slender, but not by much. She had curves and legs for days and fucking bee-stung lips, all sun-kissed skin and hair a shade lighter than it probably should be, but it was natural, a prize from spending so much time with her head dunked under seawater. He liked that her body was toned and that she was confident in her skin; he liked that Lillian was an inch or so taller than the average girl, too, because that meant that his hulking height wasn't that obvious.

Not that he would do anything about his sudden, weird, intense attraction to her. He really couldn't afford to. There was just…so much other _shit_ in his life, he didn't _need_ some girl taking up his time, too.

Dael is thankful for the distraction of shaking sand out of his boots when he arrives back at his new patio. He'd just moved in a few days ago and had built a little routine that consisted of him smoking a few cigarettes while the sun rose, just for a little peace. He wasn't sure if he should be annoyed at Tom for convincing him to join the little beach adventure, or not – he had a feeling that whatever happened was sort of important, or it would be.

The patio, though – that was his favorite place in the entire godforsaken house. Not that his room wasn't nice or anything, because it _was_ nice, and clean, and _barren_. He just didn't like his room because he knew that he would be associating unpleasant memories with it, and didn't really want to get too attached to the walls or the floor. And he liked the patio, because it was outside and quiet and he could just smoke a pack and forget about everything. Nobody that he lived with would bother him on the patio, he was sure – it was too open and anybody could see what was happening with Dael when he was leaning over the railing.

But it's not like he can avoid going inside forever. Mostly because people lived _inside_ now, thanks to clever architects and evolution.

So Dael finishes shaking the sand out of his boots and socks, and slips them back on his feet, standing from the stairs, face void of emotion. He was bracing himself, because it was early and Felix would be getting ready for work, and he _always_ started his mornings with a tangy screwdriver.

It was too bad, for Dael, that his room was on the second floor, and that the only way to get into the house from the back was through the patio door that connected to the kitchen, right where Felix was finishing what appeared to be his second beverage.

_Damn alcoholic._

"Where the fuck have you been?"

It was only somewhat impressive that Felix wasn't slurring, especially between last nights drinking and the vodka in his orange juice. Dael guessed Felix was intolerant to any obvious signs of being drunk by now.

Dael is careful not to make eye-contact with Felix, because he knew, from experience, that it only made everything worse – not that he would want to look at those cold, unrelenting eyes, anyway. "I was out."

"_Out_," Felix scoffs, mocking him.

Dael notices that Felix is carefully buttoning the cuffs of his sleeves, his moving hands showing off the glint of the chunky class ring on his right hand. "Yeah. Guy next door took me to the beach."

"How cute. Did you get his number?"

"He has a girlfriend."

"Don't sound too jealous," Felix taunts him, stepping forward, close enough that Dael can smell the vodka on his breath beneath the orange juice.

"I'm not jealous," Dael retorts, losing himself to the tone of irritation that Felix inspired.

_Mistake_.

Felix's fist bashes into Dael's cheekbone, quick and harsh, and even though Dael is taller than Felix by at least a few inches, Dael won't fight back, because Felix is stockier and meaner. Because Felix, over the last ten years, has broken his bones, his face, and his pride more than once, and there wasn't a damn thing he, or anyone else, could do about it.

Dael was an orphan. He had nobody, except for this alcoholic fuckwit and the dying woman sleeping upstairs.

And he would leave, but he won't, because Heidi was dying and she was the closest thing he'd ever have to a mother, despite the fact that her husband was amused by beating the shit out of Dael once a day.

_Fuck_ does his face hurt now. But, as Felix laughs, throwing his elbow into Dael's already-cracked ribs, Dael doesn't make a noise – no, that always egged Felix on, and Dael would have time to whimper as he bandaged himself before school.

As each hit pounds into Dael's flesh, reopening old wounds, reinjuring healing contusions, the air in the kitchen seems to get thinner, hotter. Felix kicks Dael's knee, and Dael hears the low _pop_ as his body collapses on the floor, and the kitchen is so _hot_, like it's on fire, but there's no flame.

And Dael – he'd always liked the hot and he wanted the room hotter, because the hotter it was, the less Felix felt like beating him. The random heat in the kitchen seems to reach a crescendo. _Fuck. Did I do that? No. That's insane._

"_Jesus_," Felix gasps, stopping the assault. Dael remains on the floor, eyes clenched tight, teeth grinding together as he filters through the pain, listening to Felix's feet step away on the smooth tile. "Fuckin' air conditioning must've malfunctioned. Call goddamn repairman when you manage to get your ass off the floor. And clean up that blood," he orders coldly, walking out of the kitchen, as if he hadn't just beaten a minor under his care.

Dael waits until the front door slams closed before he releases a pained groan, squinting his eyes open to peer at the little puddle of blood directly below his face – his nose was bleeding. _Fucking great._ He wasn't sweating, despite how hot the kitchen still was, but he could feel heat just as clearly as he could feel the open cut on his face, and the split of his lip. He curses as he stands, favoring one leg as he rummages through half-packed boxes until he finds the cleaning supplies; the scent of bleach is strong as he wipes his blood from the floor, scowling the entire time. _Better to get the shit done now._

His scowl settles into a glare when he finally shuffles into the bathroom across from his bedroom, after wincing on each step, because something was probably fucked up with his knee, or at least it felt that way. _Fucking bastard_, he thinks, eyeing the freshly split flesh on his cheekbone – Felix's ring must have got him, which was weird, because he usually avoided Dael's face. Like it fucking _mattered_ at this point. Dael was decidedly less-than-gentle as he rinsed off his face with cold water, using a cotton-ball soaked in alcohol to clean the cuts; stripping his shirt off, he ignored the mottled appearance of his skin, all black, blue, purple, green, and faint yellow from bruises. His ribs were already wrapped in bandages, hopefully tight enough that his ribs weren't jostled too much, because it was a bitch to get the bandage right in the first place; his stomach, though, didn't look too good, and Dael was only slightly worried that he might have some internal bleeding, though, it wouldn't be the first time. He checks on his knee briefly, and guesses that his kneecap is a little bruised, and then picks up his clothes from the floor, tossing them into the corner of his new room. The jeans he pulls directly from a box are ridiculously torn and black, and Dael bites his tongue against a pained groan as he slips on a grey t-shirt, and a red-and-black plaid shirt.

He sighs heavily once he's dressed, because it was time to start a new school, and he wasn't about to leave the house without seeing Heidi, even if she was asleep, which she was when he peeked into the room. Heidi was once very beautiful, but not anymore. Cancer was a bitch like that. His sort-of-mother was sleeping, tucked away into the guest room, the windows open so that the beach breeze would filter into the room, not that Heidi would even realize it; she was hardly ever awake these days. He sits on the windowsill, watching her silently, waiting until her caregiver arrives; on his phone, he looks up a repairman and sets the guy up to come over after school.

The weird thing is that, when Dael shuffles out of Heidi's room to answer the front door, the kitchen isn't stifling hot like it was half an hour ago. Dael's mind instantly rewinds to how the kitchen seemed to get hotter in direct correlation with how much pain he was in – _fucking weird._

Opening the door for the little Latino caregiver, he ignores the widening of her eyes when she sees his face – he already knows it looks bad, and he doesn't need the reminder. This was only her second time at the house, though, so she would eventually get used to it, or quit like all the others. Dael didn't care too much either way.

Still, starting a new school with his face looking like it did – well, that wasn't exactly ideal. It sort of put a target on his back; either he was weak and would be bullied, or he was tough and would be tested. Unfortunately for Dael, he'd always been built strong, tall and wide, and this made him look too tough.

It wasn't a surprised that people parted way in the halls, turning to whisper to their friends.

It wasn't a surprise that the reception desk in the front office hurried to hand out his papers – though, really, those fuckers _should_ have been asking why his face was all fucked up.

It wasn't a surprise when a group of jocks lumbered around him as he opened his locker – in fact, he expected that. He welcomed it. If he let these jocks trash him a little bit, then there would be a legitimate excuse for his visible injuries.

One jock, obviously the ringleader, with spiked blond hair and a tan worthy of a fucking Ken doll, leans against the locker beside Dael's, arms crossed, arrogant expression pasted onto his stupid face. He takes one look at Dael's face and fakes a wince, his tone obviously sarcastic. "Oh, that looks bad. Get into a fight?"

_Asshole_.

Dael shrugs, closing his locker, and turns away. He's playing right into this guy's hand, egging him on subtly, because high school was hard, but explaining the bruises to anyone who actually cared would be harder. So, very purposefully, Dael bumps shoulders with another jock.

Instant fucking reaction.

"Watch where you're going, fuckface," the jock sneers.

Dael glares at him. "Whatever."

Behind him, the other jock, the leader, laughs. "Oh, we've got a brave one, boys. What do we do with brave ones?"

The question is clearly rhetorical, so much so that Dael is already bracing himself for the impact of a fist when a familiar feminine voice cuts in.

"Leave him alone, Roy."

Dael's eyes snap open, instantly connecting with icy-electric-blue set into a sun-kissed face and fucking bee-stung lips, chin-length sun-bleached hair wild, tucked behind her ear, showing off these bright blue earrings that look real and _expensive_. She hadn't been wearing them earlier.

Not that any of that matters, because a flare of protectiveness ignites in his chest – because fucking _Roy_ is looking at Lillian all patronizing and shit, and Dael doesn't like that. He can tell that she's really smart.

"Mind your own business," he tells her lowly, feeling the scowl on his face.

She looks up at him, frowning minutely with concern in her eyes. She takes a step forward, but is repelled by a hand on her shoulder.

"He's right, babe," Roy says, running his hand over her shoulder and down her arm. "Why do you go wait with the girls?

Lillian pulls her arm out of Roy's grip, glaring at him. "I'm not your _babe_, Roy. I never have been and I never will be."

Roy's face turns cold and he steps into Lillian's personal space. "Listen to me. I doesn't matter if you think you don't belong to me, because you do-"

Dael's fist slams into Roy's face.

_Fuck, that felt good. What an asshole_.

Roy rubs a hand over his jaw, eyes glinting coldly. "You're going to regret that."

"Make me."

Roy throws the second punch, and Dael, so accustomed to the pain, ignores it. The hallway feels hot, as if fueled by Dael's annoyance, his constant anger – and it gets hotter the more hits are exchanged.

Too hot, because Roy is suddenly sweating a lot, but Dael's not, and neither of them are stopping, because the fighting? The fighting feels _good_. And for once, Dael is allowed to fight back, and he does, without restraint.

"_Stop it!"_ Lillian yells.

And then, just like that, with a heavy groan, the sprinkler system turns on, drenching the hall in water.

Stopping the fight, which gives Roy time to run, along with his jock buddies, before a teacher investigates.

Drenching _Dael_ in water that evaporates right off his skin.

Even more fucking weird, is that Lillian's eyes are wide and panicked, like she's done something, but she doesn't know what, or _how_.

And her eyes are glowing blue, electric and brighter by the second as water soaks into her hair and clothes.

"Everyone outside!"

Lillian's eyes slam closed at the sound of the authoritative voice, and when she opens them again, the color is back to a normal blue, without all the glowing.

But Dael _knows_ that he's seen something – twice now. And it's freaking him out, as well as his protective reaction towards her.

So, before she can turn away, he catches her wrist, glaring down at her, his skin dry despite the water raining from the ceiling.

"Stay the fuck away from me."

* * *

**A/N: So, **_**THIS**_** is my version of Emmett, and I call him Dael, and he has all my feels! And all of my writing "fucks", apparently lol  
**

**Shout out to the reviews of the last chapter –**

**gumibear26 – I hope you got a look at the new cast! And I think Parcae is pronounced "parr-k-ceee"?**

**Nalia-R – I see what you did there! Lol**

**Dinotopian – Love!**

**Courtney – Each part has roughly 15-20 chapters, maybe more, maybe less.**

**Siobhan Whitlock – YEP! Things are getting reinvented! Lol**

**LunaDiSangue85 – His deal is the feels! Lol**

**Super special shout out to the first review of the last chapter – Monique1991 – Oh! But I hope someone saw the danceparty! lol**

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

**~cupcakeriot**


	4. The Ember and The Mist - 3

**Disclaimer: Neptune and Vulcan don't own Twilight.**

* * *

3

_Kehei, Hawaii, 2013_

"Vicki? Babe?"

Victoria shudders, limbs trembling like she's just run a mile – but she hasn't, _Gods_ know she didn't. She didn't even like running, especially not on rocky beaches at dawn. That was more James' thing, really, and probably had something to do with him being the Fire Watcher; from what she knew, the Earth Watcher did a lot of running, too.

Men.

Whatever.

"I'm outside," she calls back, just barely turning her head, eyes locked onto the tides of the Hawaiian sea, all bright blue and rioting.

Victoria was no stranger to the sea – she both loved it and had fear of it. She'd always been in tune with the turning of the tides, and, more importantly, the fluctuations of the ocean's magic. The elegant tattoo that had been etched into her skin since birth, the color of an angry tsunami, pulsed in recognition, and the ocean in front of her lapped at her toes, as if in agreement.

She was the Water Watcher.

And Water was awake.

Victoria had been waiting for this day for her entire life, had been trained to know what to do when this moment came – so when James steps up behind her, concerned hand pressed onto the bare skin of her freckled shoulder, she shoots him a half-delirious, half-mesmerized smile. _Feeling_ the Water Element was a bit disorienting; clearly, the child had no idea what she was doing. But that was okay. Victoria would fix that.

"Babe, your eyes are blue."

Victoria quirks a brow, only mildly surprised; her eyes had sort of…_popped_ earlier. "Are they? That's new."

It was new. Victoria, who was born with flaming red hair, a handful of freckles, and rather drab brown eyes, now had blue eyes – probably a dull blue, but still. If anything, this was another sign that Water was awake, ready to be found and trained.

"Does this mean…?"

Victoria nods slowly. "I'm pretty sure, yeah. I mean, before, I could feel the ocean, but now…I'm aware of _all_ the water. It's…crazy intense. I think I just felt a tide in Japan."

James' hands curl around her shoulders gently. "I think you should sit down."

"Should I? That's probably smart- oh, _wow_. Glaciers. I can feel _glaciers_."

James laughs, the sound rich and full. She never got over how deep his voice was, or how golden his skin was, or how his smile was just-

_Waterfalls, too. And…Lake Erie? _

The information was just so much – she could feel all the water, just _everywhere_. Every drop accumulating in the sky, every splatter of rain making a puddle. There was so _much_ and Victoria was getting dizzy trying to sort through it.

But she was a Watcher. And this was exactly what she was built to do – _watch_. She was designed to _know_ everything, _watch_ everything about water. It was her Element. She knew water, and water knew her, and soon, she would find Water, and help Water learn her own power.

And Water was….hiding.

Victoria frowns as James guides her to sit on the moist sand, crouching beside her, pushing an errant red, curly tendril behind her ear. "I can't find her."

James hums in the back of his throat, a quietly contemplative look on his face. He was a Watcher, too – he understood, in theory, what was happening to Victoria. He hadn't felt Fire, yet, but he would. Especially now that Water was awake. "Water is female this time?"

Victoria nods. Her great-grandfather had been the Water Watcher, too, and at that time, so many years ago, Water was male. But…the disturbance she felt when Water woke up was distinctly feminine – cool, collected, and lonely, but entirely female.

Victoria didn't _like_ the loneliness she felt from the ocean.

Finding Water was her priority now.

Eventually, though, James pulls her inside, away from the beach, away from the high tide as the sun sets. She wasn't sure where the time went, really. She lost it somewhere in the ocean.

Her mind is a million miles away as she mechanically eats whatever messy dish James sets out before her – he wasn't very good at making much besides guacamole and sandwiches, usually with said guacamole _on_ it.

It happens right after she takes a bite, mouth frozen mid-chew.

Because there was _something_.

Or, actually, _someone_.

"m'eri'a," she says aloud, blinking at James' perplexed expression, feeling an embarrassed flush rise on her pale cheeks as she quickly chews and swallows her food. "America," she repeats, clearing her throat.

"America."

"South," she says thoughtfully, closing her eyes. "West, too. California."

James puts down his food and stands, walking over to the wall between the little dinette and the kitchen where their outdated acid-green wall phone hang. They really needed to update this entire bungalow.

Victoria looks down at her plate as James picks up the phone and dials a number. _It really is a sandwich with guacamole. I should teach him how to make tacos. _

Her attention is drawn to James again as she hears his side of the conversation, and then as he hands the phone to her.

"_You found Water?"_

"Carlisle," she greets. "Nice to talk to you, too."

"_I'm well aware of how poor my phone manners are, Victoria. Esme is especially observant of this flaw."_

"As long as you know."

"_Did you find Water?"_

Victoria closes her eyes, honing in on that _tug_ that she feels from her tattoo, the one that is pulling her north and to the east. "Yes. I…_feel_ her. She's just discovered something – feels like splashing, I think, but the water is confined."

"_She's experimenting, then."_

"I think so. It's all so…"

"_Overwhelming? The Chronicles have said as much. You'll get used to it."_

"I can find her, Carlisle," Victoria tells him certainly, trying to ignore the fact that _it was really happening._ Finally. "If I went, I think I could find her."

"_You can,_" Carlisle assures her, his voice crackling over the line. _"And take James with you. The Elements awaken with proximity. If you feel Water now, James will feel Fire soon."_

"We'll book a redeye," Victoria says, newly-blue eyes darting to James, who immediately set about booting up their old PC.

"_Use the Council's card. This is official business._"

Official business.

_Oh, Gods_. _This is happening._

Victoria nods, and then belatedly realizes that Carlisle can't see her. "Right. Of course it is."

The other end of the line is silent for a moment. _"It's been a long time since an Element woke up, Victoria. Two generations at least. This time we cannot fail."_

She closes her eyes, pushing curly red hair off her forehead. "I know. We won't. We can't."

"_Keep me updated."_

"I will."

Carlisle hangs up without saying goodbye.

"Yeah, _bye-bye to you too, Carl_," she mutters.

James shoots an amused glance over his shoulder as Internet Explorer loads on the screen in front of him. "If it makes you feel better, he didn't say hello to me, either."

"That does make me feel better," Victoria muses. "You know that Angela once yelled at him because he didn't greet her over the phone? I was there. I saw it. Poor Ben didn't know what to do."

"It's always the quiet ones."

Victoria laughs lightly, shaking her head as she feels a wave crash against the cliffs of Ireland. "I'll just go pack," she says after a silent moment, pulling her head back into the present. "Book us something for…Los Angeles."

James pulls a face. "Good thing we're not paying for these tickets."

Victoria snorts, her mind already delving into oceans hundreds of miles away.

_With Water comes Fire._

_The Aether is only two Elements away._

Several miles away, Carlisle hangs up the phone, rubbing a hand down his face. "It's really starting," he murmurs.

Across the room, Esme stops her meditations, hands falling slack to her knees, eyes blinking open to stare at her husband for several long moments. "I will contact Katie."

"Neptune likely knows his descendent is awake."

Esme smiles softly. "Sometimes, formalities are necessary."

What she does not say is that sometimes, formalities are necessary because the Gods demanded respect.

Respect was an easy choice to make under the threat of death.

* * *

**A/N: Hope everyone had a happy holiday! I did, sort of!**

**No review replies this time! Updates will be coming quicker, likely once or twice a week given how short the chapters are for this particular story.**

**James and Victoria aren't evil!? I know, I know! I'm messing with cannon!**

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it!**

**~cupcakeriot**


	5. The Ember and The Mist - 4

**Disclaimer: Neptune and Vulcan don't own Twilight.**

* * *

**4**

_Malibu, California, 2013_

Lillian's feet ached. As a rule, she didn't wear heels – she much preferred to be barefoot than have her poor toes cramped into the tip of a pointed-toe pump. It was too bad her adoptive…_whatever_ didn't agree. Jane lived in heels; Lillian was sure she'd seen a pair of cheetah print high-heeled _slippers_ at least once.

The only silver-lining Lillian could think of is the fact that Jane was almost never home, so Lillian didn't have to withstand this torture more than once every few months.

Still, Lillian released a grateful sigh once she was close enough to a wall to lean against it slightly.

The party – _fundraiser, maybe_ – was incredibly boring, filled with haughty women, cocktail glasses, and a handful of teenage girls who appeared to be as enthused as Lillian as they gathered in little circles. In California, and this close to LA, the guests at this shindig were all nauseatingly rich.

What that really meant was that all of these girls would eventually turn into their mothers.

_So depressing_.

Lillian leans further into the wall, silently watching a group of girls she went to school with. She'd known them for five years, had invited them and been invited to various parties, and she _still_ couldn't remember their names. None of them were as casual as Vera – they cared too much about this debutant stuff.

Lillian couldn't care less.

Not that she would _ever_ say anything about it to Jane.

Lillian was more than aware that her adoptive-almost-mother had picked Lillian from the foster home specifically for her blond hair and blue eyes – and Lillian knew, without a doubt, that if she didn't cooperate with being Jane's living doll, she'd be sent right back to where she came from.

A place she _never_ wanted to return to.

It was a fair trade, then – play the perfect daughter, never have to go _back_.

Even if her feet were killing her.

It's nearly midnight when Lillian and Jane arrive back at the sprawling modern mansion, Jane reeking of champagne as she stumbles out of the limo. Lillian fakes a smile as she hands the driver a tip before taking Jane's elbow and guiding the older woman to the front door. The house is quiet, except for the loud stumbling clacks of Jane's heels – Lillian had removed hers in the limo and _accidentally_ left them there. Jane would never notice.

"You 'ave a…appo'n…appo'nt…" Jane slurs with a bleary smile as Lillian helps her into the master bedroom.

Lillian nods. It was the same every Saturday at two – an appointment at Jane's favorite spa for a manicure, pedicure, hair treatment to counter act all the sea salt, and waxing of various body parts. Jane had set this up since Lillian first arrived under her care, and it had been the same for four years.

She never complained about the poking and prodding – what girl didn't like pampering? The sad truth was that she knew her hairstylist better than she knew Jane, and actually looked forward to spending four hours surrounded by the scent of acetone. Jane _never_ went to the spa at the same time Lillian did – something that had stopped bothering Lillian by the time she was fourteen.

"I know," she tells Jane, watching as her pseudo-mother sprawls back, already asleep as Lillian slips off her heels and backs out the door.

Lillian leans her forehead against the closed door, eyes shut as she exhales.

Loneliness clutches her chest, squeezing without mercy.

_Gods, what would it be like to have an actual mother?_

Lillian was sure she would never know.

That was something she'd have to learn how to accept.

Once Jane's drunken snores reach her ears, Lillian turns around, ambling down the hallway towards her room, shutting the door firmly behind her, shaking off the feelings. She was just tired and a little frustrated.

And things had been _weird_.

She hadn't wanted to think about it, but ever since she'd almost drowned, it was almost like Lillian and water were…connected – somehow.

That day in the hallway with Dael, when the sprinkler systems erupted, had been a sign of something.

And it had happened again yesterday while she was surfing – Lillian had been frustrated that the water was so calm that she'd slapped the smooth surface, only to look up and see a large wave building on the horizon.

_Something_ was happening – _to her._

She just didn't know what it was.

The funny thing about it was that Lillian wasn't scared. Not even a little bit. Whatever was going on seemed natural. It might even explain her affinity for water in the first place.

An idea pops into her head and her first instinct is to push it way, because the idea was just _ridiculous_.

_But._

Lillian rushes into her bathroom, filling up the glass cup that she rinsed her mouth with, and placing the half-full glass on the counter. Her fingers curl around the edge of the marble as she stares at the glass.

"Okay. Let's see if this is real," she mutters.

She stares at the glass.

Stares at the water.

Tilts her head.

Frowns.

Nothing was happening.

But then – she wasn't really _doing_ anything, either.

Lillian tilts her head back, thinking about what made the sprinklers erupt, thinking about what made that wave swell.

Frustration?

_No. In the hallway, I wasn't mad. I was scared – for Dael, because Roy is an asshole and Dael already looked pretty beat up._

Strong emotion, then.

Probably.

The problem with this, of course, was that Lillian wasn't feeling any particularly strong emotions.

So, what then?

She sighs and stares back at the glass of water. "Do something," she tells it half-heartedly. "_Move_."

Water explodes from the glass, drenching Lillian's face and a good portion of her cornflower cocktail dress.

Her own incredulous icy-electric blue eyes stare at her in the mirror.

"I totally didn't imagine _that_."

The next Monday, Lillian slips from Vera's enthusiastic Vogue-inspired grasp during the lunch hour to scour the library for _anything_ that might be related to whatever was happening with her.

_What is it? Some water-specific TK? Am I in a Stephen King novel? Oh, Gods, am I Carrie? I don't want to be Carrie._

It's as Lillian is quietly having a meltdown in the science section of the library that she bumps into a hulking figure.

Rather, the _legs_ of a hulking figure, that doesn't really seem to be…_hulking_ at the moment.

"Are you sleeping?" she whispers sharply, lightly kicking Dael's shin. "Dude, you can't sleep in the library."

Dael uncrosses his arms and glares up at Lillian, eyes seeming more amber than rust in the harsh florescent lights. "I _was_ sleeping," he bites out.

Lillian raises a brow as she examines the fading bruises on Dael's face, the way that his clothes don't seem to fit quite right, and the sand that seems glued to one side of his pants. "Are you okay?"

"What does it matter to you?"

"People don't usually sleep in the library," Lillian points out. "It's odd. You're not dying, are you?"

Dael's laugh is bitter and hard. "No. Not dying. Not sleeping, either," he grouches, standing up.

Lillian tries not to think about how masculine he is or about how his lips might feel against her own.

She forces her thoughts towards different avenues – like the dark circles beneath his eyes or the gauntness of his face. Without hesitation, Lillian digs into the hemp messenger bag, reaching towards the loose bills that rested in the bottom.

"Here," she says, holding out the change.

Dael stares at the money blankly. "What?"

"Take it."

He glares and suddenly, the air around them feels too hot, too thin to breathe. Lillian gasps as Dael steps closer, forcing her back into one of the tall shelves that held books about geology and astrophysics.

"I don't need your _charity_," he says, teeth tight together, nose flaring. "Keep your fucking money and stay the hell away from me."

Dael stalks off, leaving a rush of heated air in his wake.

And Lillian – she gasps, feeling so thirsty, like all the water in her body had been drained.

She roots around in her bag, breathing harshly, pulling out the bottle of water she always kept on her – only to find that it was empty. Which was _weird_, because she _knows_ that it had been full not two minutes ago.

But the water was gone.

Like it evaporated.

She couldn't think about it anymore, though, not when she felt like she was going to die if she didn't get water in her system _now._

Thankfully, her school put a lot of emphasis on student convenience, and there were a few vending machines near the back of the library by the study tables.

Lillian uses one of the dollars she had tried to give Dael to buy a bottle of cold water, chugging the entire bottle in one breath, glad that this portion of the library was empty because of the time of day.

She buys another bottle – then another, and one after that – drinking them all quickly until her stomach protests and she finally feels like she hasn't dried up inside.

To be safe, Lillian buys another bottle, making a mental note to carry three or four bottles on her at all times – and to keep all of those bottles _away from Dael_.

Because _something_ was happening to Dael, too.

* * *

**A/N: Updates are back on schedule!**

**Shout out to the reviews for the last chapter –**

**Edward's spouse – It gets even more interesting!**

**gumibear26 – Dael has plans! Or, rather, I have plans for Dael! Lol And I thought Victoria's part was hilarious. And I sort of like Carlisle as a little grumpy – dude's stressed out! Lol**

**LunaDiSangue85 – The villain for this one is going to blow your mind! **

**Super special shout out to the first review of the last chapter – angelari7 – Yes! All three parts are the three different couples. Thanks for giving Part 1 a chance!**

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

**~cupcakeriot**


End file.
